Ice Cream

Ever since I can remember, my parents forbade the consumption of sweets. They even went so far as to undergo surprise weekly inspections of my room to make sure I wasn’t hoarding anything. They said it was for my own good, that when I grew up I would thank them for it. Naturally, I resisted. Sometimes, as a young boy, I would go with my friends after school to the ice cream parlor to spend my weekly allowance. When my mother found a receipt from the parlor in my pant pocket while doing laundry one weekend, she and my father began to demand that I come home directly from school every day. I was irate, but eventually, I had no choice but to concede.

            Summers, however, I was given more freedom, and I was occasionally able to buy sweets and consume them. Once, when I was about eleven years old, I spent the night at a friend's, and after dinner, the two of us walked to the ice cream parlor. I remember on the way I was telling him just how ridiculous it was for my parents to keep expecting me to follow their ridiculous rule. We laughed as I recounted all the various sweets I had consumed without their knowing it, and my friend, who was a little bit older, assured me that soon my parents would give way, as his parents had regarding many of their own little foibles.

            We reached the corner where the ice cream parlor was situated. It was a Friday night, and it seemed the whole town was out and about. I looked through the glass into the parlor. It was thronged. Men and women in dressy attire stood smiling holding their ice cream cones, carefully craning their necks to lick or take bites from them. Then, I noticed two figures at the counter. They were dressed in familiar clothes. It was my parents. I could not believe it. It had never once crossed my mind that my parents could be hypocrites. In fact, at the time, I was completely unaware of the term, or the concept, of hypocrisy. I bolted into the parlor, leaving my friend, who stood aghast, behind. I walked up to my parents, who had their backs to me, and I cleared my throat loudly. They turned around.

            They looked at me, stunned. I stood, my arms crossed, tapping my foot, as if waiting for an explanation. My parents, however, seemed to think one wasn’t necessary. My father, usually a very reserved, quiet man, smiled brightly. “Jason!” he cried. “What a surprise! Are you out with your friend? Where is he?”

            My friend, who had entered the parlor but was watching from a distance, stepped forward. “Hello, Mr. Davis.”

            “Out for some ice cream, boys?” my mother said, giving her cone a lick. “Care to try some of this, Jason? It’s pistachio. Delicious.”

            She held out the cone to me. I stared past it intently into her face.

            “Well,” she said, “it’s a rather exotic flavor. Not for everyone, I suppose. Perhaps you’d care to try some of your father’s? His is chocolate chip.”

            My father put the ice cream to his lips, and took a large bite from it, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes in an expression of unabashed delight. A shudder of complete disgust ran through me, and I was on the verge of exploding. My father removed the cone away from his face, and held it out to me. “Go ahead, Jason,” he said. “Take as big of a bite as you can.”

            I looked again at my father. It seemed that he was waiting on the edge of his nerve for me to act, as if my decision would determine his eternal fate. I looked at my friend, who merely shrugged, then at the ice cream cone. “No thank you,” I said, surprised at the coldness in my voice. “I’ve lost my appetite."
My parents frowned, I turned and walked out of the parlor, my friend trailing behind me. Still, to this day, I cannot even look at ice cream without feeling the need to wretch.